The Death of Draco Malfoy
by One Raindrop Raises the Sea
Summary: Returning to Hogwarts after the Second Wizarding War, Draco Malfoy was expecting a difficult seventh year. He, however, wasn't expecting to be found dead before Christmas. With the help of a clever Ravenclaw ghost, Draco searches for truth behind his inconvenient demise. Hiatus!
1. Prologue: Sleeping Murder

**Warnings: Some gore/violence, mentions of suicide/suicidal thoughts, and death.  
**

Prologue: Sleeping Murder

Death: a five letter word so natural, yet so unfathomable to human beings who spend so much of their time in motion: regretting, living, worrying.

I should have told you this **yesterday.**

What do you want **to be** when you grow up?

I have to do this **now.**

Did you hear what he **did** last night?!

You can give it to me **tomorrow**.

Past, Present, and Future.

Humans are conditioned to exist in the three states to survive. They have to learn from mistakes, react to their environment, and plan for the worst.

But, what of death? Can humans plan for death? No, not speaking of the couple that takes out life insurance, nor the sick old man saying his last goodbyes to teary eyed love ones. Can a human imagine being dead in a day? An hour? A minute? One second the body flushed and fleshy, and the mind fixated on time; the next: dead, all signs of rosy cheeks, pursed lips, warm fingertips gone. All that remains is pale flesh, slowly retracting and disintegrating from the bone that in time becomes nothing more than dust, as if the memories and desires and hopes never existed. Could this be imagined?

What of dying? Can they understand what it feels like to die? Is it quick: all taken from you with your last gasped breath? Or is it slow: a drawn out process as life drained like a leech attached to the body? Are they filled with gnawing pain before the end? Or perhaps it is as being lulled into sleep. Then, perhaps death is just a dream.

If that is the case then Draco Malfoy was having a nightmare.

* * *

The golden glow of the morning shone through the window of the Slytherin common room, rousing Draco Malfoy up from his slumber. It was rarity for Draco to sleep well nowadays with the horrors of the war haunting him at every moment; but, last night had granted him peace in a dreamless, euphoric state. It was as if the burdens of the previous year have been lifted and left for dead in the past.

He sat on the side of the four-poster bed and warmed himself in the sun. He imagined he must have looked much like a snake, inching his head towards the warmth as he closed his eyes and soaked in the liveliness of the day. The scene would confirm the theory, that was subscribed to by several, that he was a coldblooded reptile; the same several that were making his seventh year a living hell. However, it was a rare day; one without a night of bloodcurdling dreams, waking up wet with sweat and tears along with the occasional dark spot on his trousers, and constantly reminded with the always growing abscess filled with his shame and hatred and anger and regret as well as every other dangerous emotion that would elicit suspicion in his watch dogs. He cared little of these things on this day. The sun was out and he was warm.

Opening his eyes and squinting into the light, he saw figures swooshing past. As he focused on the figures, the luminosity of light dimmed allowing him to see the greenery of Hogwart's Quidditch pitch. The objects in motion slowed to a state of recognition; all five of them wearing deep green cloaks. Blaize Zabini hovered at the far left with Theodore Nott next to him. The subdued pair wore small smiles upon their relaxed faces as they watched the other four muck about. Daphne Greengrass circled the Keepers post in figure eights and zig zags, her long hair floating elegantly behind her in waves of golden blonde. Gregory Goyle concentrated earnestly to balance a quaffle on his fingertips, his eyes crossing every time he dropped it. Vincent Crabbe was closest to the window and at the sight of Draco, he flew to the building, tapping on the window Draco was peering out of with a stubby finger.

Draco waved back, porcelain skin white in the sun's brilliance. He flexed his slender fingers, watching the muscles move down unblemished forearm. Unblemished?

He sat back down on the duvet and traced a finger across the skin where the scars of the skull and snake use to be, as Crabbe continued his tapping. A sudden searing pain pierced the back of his head causing a hand to clutch the spot involuntarily to assess the damage. Finding nothing, the pain ending as abruptly as it started, confusion and hints of panic filled him. He resumed observing his arm, more frantically as the time without an answer increases.

The tapping became louder, a hollow sound echoed through the room at even intervals worsening Draco's panic. He turned to face his irritant, but freezing when the sight of flesh peeling from Crabbe's finger, charred bone revealed but continuing to tap. The skin slowly receded from the arm and up the shoulder, leaving the once white bone blackened, with muscle and fat dripping off in greasy clumps. The blistering pain in the back of his head returned as he watched the burning of his friend's flesh reach his neck; the boy's face furious and howling as skull was revealed.

Spinning on his foot, Draco dashed to the bathroom; tripping, he spewed bile on the floor below. Head dizzy from pain and nausea, he collapsed on the ground.

He took deep breaths in an attempt to try to regain sanity, but he could still hear the tapping.

Pale blonde hair floated downwards.

And he blacked out.


	2. Chapter 2: Black Coffee Re-Post

**Black Coffee**

Draco awoke to the sound of water droplets falling and hitting the ground. While comforted that his nightmare was over, the grey stone floor covered in large puddles that reflected white, hazy moonlight was a good sign that he wasn't in his dorm room. The room seemed to be shrouded in a heavy fog, but Draco's mind and eyes were still waking from his sleep, and his nightmares always take a toll on his body, making it difficult to distinguish what was real and what was not.

He was lying under one of the white porcelain sinks that lined one of the room's walls; he remembered that he had dueled here a couple of years ago with Potter. A duel that had ended in him in the same position, his blood mixing with water as he begun to die. Only Professor Snape's good timing and attentive spell work kept him from meeting his demise.

Sitting up slowly to avoid hitting his head against one of the sinks, he called out to a familiar figure lurking in one of the stalls.

"Myrtle," he shouted, and on queue she pushed the stall door open with a gut wrenching squeak. Floating over to him quickly with barely contained excitement, her translucent robes floating around even when she was motionless, she smiled. Her white, ghostly teeth appeared brighter against rose red lips.

She was floating uncomfortably close to him as she squealed, "Draco! I've missed you!"

He had spent much of his sixth year, in between class and fixing that wretched closet, but he hadn't returned since. Pushing aside a twinge of guilt, he tried to remember how he ended up in the first-floor girls' bathroom. Had he sleep walked up here? Surely, not. There were too many stairs from the dungeon to here, and he would have been spotted by either a prefect or one of the aurors that patrol the corridors at night. Perhaps someone moved him up here? But, who?

"Myrtle, by any chance did you know how I got here?" he asked as the girl floated circles around him, giggly flirtatiously. The normally miserable ghost was uncharacteristically happy Draco noticed, and he doubted it was just his presence that was causing the mood swing.

Still spinning, she cheekily said, "Of course, _I_ do. _They_ brought you here."

His brow scrunched in confusion. "_They_?" he asked, "Who are _they_?"

"Hmm…" she tapped a finger against her bottom lip in though, using her other hand to count as she listed them off, "The Bloody Baron, Sir Nicolas and Sir Patrick, The Fat Friar, The Grey Lady… I think Peeves was here as well, but he was just watching to amuse himself, that git. He always gets a kick out of the process, but he didn't dare to pull anything funny with the Baron around…"

"_Ghosts_?!" He exclaimed, "House ghosts?! No offense Myrtle, but why did _they_ bring me up _here_?"

She shrugged and said, "Who else and where else? They just left you here to gather your bearings and went back down to the dungeons to help with setting up the party with the others. If you are ready, we should be heading down there soon." Biting her lip slightly, a white canine shone against the red, and glancing out a window at the moonlight sky, she began to look a bit nervous. Draco, however, couldn't give a second thought to her emotional wellbeing, with his own fraying at the seams in an attempt to decipher what she had just said.

"_'Gather my bearings'_? '_Party'_? I'm sorry Myrtle, but I'm not feeling up to that right now. I'd rather just go to bed, so if you'll excuse me…" he tried to stand but the moment his foot connected with the ground, her staggered forward and fell to the ground but felt nothing at impact. His legs were unresponsive to any command his brain gave: _get up_! _move_! _walk_! He shot the girl a panicked expression, dreading the thought that he had got into some terrible accident, without knowing it, and that had cost him the use of his legs. He would be paralyzed forever.

Myrtle watched him fall with a horrified shriek. "Draco!" she screeched, "Are you ok? You can't move like that anymore! Watch me; float the way I do!" Flying around the room, taking the opportunity to throw in some quick maneuvers and elaborate tricks for theatrics, she felt excited that she finally had an audience to admire her much practiced skills.

However, Draco proved to be a poor spectator, as he spent the time looking at his self rather than the fancifully flying girl. His skin was pale, but still opaque; and his finely crafted robes still had color to them. Surely, he couldn't move like her. It wasn't as if he was a ghost, he thought feeling sick to his stomach, which luckily felt empty. He would be mortified if he were to spew vomit at a time like this. But even with his rationalizations, he knew there was one test to prove or disprove what she was insinuating. He placed a hand on the white snake of his embroidered crest which rested possessively on his silent breast. There was no heartbeat to be heard. He, Draco Lucius Malfoy, was dead.

* * *

Stopping her demonstration, Myrtle glanced over at the boy whose eyes were void of emotion as his hand was rested over his still heart. She knew that familiar feeling of emptiness that one had at the realization of their demise, having felt it so many years ago. She floated over to him once again, but was at loss for words the moment she opened her mouth. There hadn't been a death at Hogwarts since her own. But, he looked so especially pitiful: a disheveled, beautiful boy lying on the floor with his hand gripping at his breast in hope that the familiar rhythm would return and life would resume. She felt the need to say something, anything, to comfort the boy.

"I'm sorry, I thought you knew." She said, placing her own hand across her chest. Something that mortals do when they are feeling sorry for someone else, she recalled. But, also she did it to try to remember the gentle thumping of her own heart; something she hadn't thought about for a while.

Finally, the bereaved boy croaked out a question with a raspy voice, "How? How did I— How did _it_ happen?"

"I don't know."

"Why can't I remember?"

"…I don't know."

"Do you know _anything_?!" he said behind gritted teeth, knowing his harshness wasn't justified, but the sudden emergence of overwhelming emotions made his head spin and his stomach churn. And the thought he didn't actually have neither a physical head nor a stomach worsened his panic. But, he also felt small embers of passion lit inside of him and knew his sanity was being maintained by a deep desire; a question that was shouted in every fiber of his being.

Myrtle was taken aback by his outburst but still managed to stutter out a response, "The o-other's know more… I-I wasn't there when they found you. They all should be at the party… well, it's YOUR party, actually. I can take you there, if you would like."

"Fine," Draco said, sighing. "I'm leaving my _own_ way, however." Myrtle's face scrunched up in confusion at his perplexing statement, but her face fell when she saw him try to get up once again on his feet.

"Draco!" she shouted, hands bunching up the fabric in her robes and twisting them tautly, "Stop it! You'll only hurt yourself!"

But, he felt no pain when the inevitable happened as he fell on his face once again. He pondered for a moment why he didn't just sink through the stone, as all ghost pass through objects seemingly easy. He cannot feel the ground as he lands, but still his affected by the physicality of it. Something to ask the others, he thought, pushing his curiosity aside as he resumed his task.

Crouching on his knees, he teetered as he extended a leg to hoist himself up. It was an arduous task to have made it this far, with one leg stretch and the other on its knee; it felt as if he had to put his full attention in properly using his legs. And Myrtle was breaking his concentration with cries of "We can't do it that way" and "they aren't meant to be used like that", but with great determination he was able to stand himself upright on both feet, though he felt unstable and weak. Walking was another matter entirely, as his strides felt unnatural— interchangeably too wide and too narrow with every step. Although he was limping and lurching forward in a way that was hard to watch, he was able to leave the bathroom almost 'his own way', having to pass through the large wooden door as he was no longer able to turn its knob.

The feeling of walking through something that was once so tangible and substantial was admittedly fantastic. It felt like a cool fog brushing up against his skin; the first physical feeling he had since waking up. It made him feel invincible— well, until he realized he was dead which sobered him enough to continue to follow Myrtle awkwardly and slowly to the dungeon, and to his answers.

* * *

Their journey to the dungeons had been prolonged by Draco's stubbornness and reluctance to fly; but when they had at last arrived, passing through a dank stone wall and into a large banquet hall, several ghostly figures turned their heads to have a first look at the newest addition to their family. And at the sight of him standing on the ground, legs bent sickly, many of them begun to snicker and whisper amongst themselves.

A large man in a dirty habit laughed the loudest, knocking a metal mug on the walls as he bellowed out, "Our guest of honor has at last made his presence known, and he delights us with such humor, which I once thought to be an incomprehension to a member of the great and powerful Slytherin House. What a delightful surprise that not all of our Slytherin ghosts will be as solemn and stuffy as the Baron, isn't that right?" The Bloody Baron, whose name came from the dark bloodstains that covered his translucent body, looked as unamused as ever at the comment, but the large ghosts continued regardless saying loudly, "But, please, eat! Have mirth, young one! We have all gathered here in remembrance of the end of your life and the beginning of your death!"

With that, the fat man turned back to one of the large banquet tables that had on it a vast amount of rotting, putrid food. Piles of rancid chicken were stacked up on a silver platter, much of the fat yellowed and congealed, creating an adhesive to it and the plate. Fruit was rotten to the core, having more black abscesses of decay than flesh. And the loaves of bread were covered with thick arrays of mold, creating a colorful spectrum of blues, greens, and whites. Sickened, Draco realized that he recognized that some of it had come from the school's Halloween feast, which took place more than two fortnights ago.

Turning his attention from the tables— he thought he might be sick if he continues to look at that repulsive and pulpy decay. He glanced around to observe the guests present. There had to be a little over two dozen— most of which he recognized but had no knowledge of who they are, or better put, where. However, the house ghosts were easily the most familiar sights; with Hufflepuff's ghost The Fat Friar still stuffing his face with putrid food over by one of the tables. The almost decapitated ghost of Gryffindor stood amongst a small gathering of other fancifully dressed figures, most of them appearing to be knights or nobility as well. With her long, silver robes flowing around her, the Grey Lady of Ravenclaw floating alone in a corner, a book in hand but still fully aware of her surroundings with keen ears and unearthing eyes. He noticed that Professor Binns was absent from the celebration, and wondered if was as lethargic at night as he was in the day.

His own house's ghost, the terrifying and notorious Bloody Baron, was one of the first to approach him, and at the sight of the brooding ghost, Myrtle squeaked meekly and flew off to the opposite side of the hall. Draco, however, felt comfort in his acknowledgment; the quasi-familial ties that were stitched by the house system appeared to stay intact even in death. Being a Slytherin meant more than the green robes he wore; and will always wear from time immemorial, apparently.

"Malfoy," the baron croaked in a raspy voice, rarely used. The silver chains the encompassed his body was mixed with an unsettling amount of red. Draco arched a brow. He had always recalled that the Baron was covered in silver, translucent blood, which made the ghost even further unsettling to look at.

"Baron," Draco responded similarly, but then continued to say, "You have more color than usual."

If he were the type, the older ghost would have chuckled at that comment, but instead he deadpanned, "As a ghost you will see the dead as how they once were. You have just awoken, so it will take time for your sight to change, but soon ghosts will be living and the living will be ghosts."

Draco recalled the sudden redness of Mrtyle's lips and cursed himself for not noticing earlier. But, he wasn't sure how literally he should take this, the Baron having a knack for poetic, vague speech; but, he ignored it for the moment being in an attempt to get some of his questions answered.

Forming his words slowly and thoughtfully, Draco said, "Myrtle told me you were one of the… ones that found me, is that right?" The baron nodded in affirmation, but gave no further information. Draco realized he would have to be direct if he were to get any information from the enigmatic ghost. But, it was difficult to vocalize his passing out loud— it was as if he was giving substance to something he still partially believed to be a dream or hallucination. If he were to say it, it would be concreted in reality; unable to be changed or fixed.

Trying again, he asked in a whisper, "Do you know how it happened? How I… how I _died_…"

The Baron shook his head slowly and said, "No. There is speculation amongst the ghosts, but give little regard to their idle gossip; it is spawn from their boredom and self-interest, and most do not realize their unintended malice." It was a rarity to see the Baron speak so much, but Draco had a suspicion that he was no stranger to theories and rumors. It is hard not to be curious of how one ended up soaked in blood and covered in chains.

"Can you tell me where you found me, at least?" asked Draco.

"Outside; on the grounds."

"When?"

"Earlier tonight."

"Has anyone—"

"No," the baron interrupted, fully aware of what the young man was insinuating, "None of the living know yet." They haven't found _him_, Draco thought. He was lying out there, dampening in the early morning dew. How long would he wait there? How long would he remain unnoticed?

"Will you tell anyone about me? What I am?" he whimpered, regretting how childish he sounded. But, the thought of people knowing what he had become filled him with shame and dread. Only the weak fear death enough to remain on earth, unable to accept their fate and pass with the rest of the dead. His mere existence would forever be a disgrace to the Malfoy family and name.

But, the Baron set his fears to rest with another shake of the head. "No," he said. "I swear that no one here will utter a word of this when in the presence of the living. You may reveal yourself when you are ready."

Never would he be ready to do such a mortifying thing. Not until his family was dead and forgotten, until Potter's tale become just a myth, and until the Weasleys no longer had red hair. In other words, he would be ready when trolls turned out to be extraordinarily intelligent creatures that wore tailored robes and drank fire-whisky by their fireplaces, discussing the implications of the recent cauldron tax.

Although Draco was left with more questions than answers, the Baron was growing tired of his incessant interrogation, so silently the sulking ghost bid him farewell and floated off to make his rounds haunting the castle before sunrise.

However, Draco was anxious to know more, and it didn't take long before another curious group of ghosts approached, which he recognized as Nearly- Headless Nick and his party of dapper gentlemen.

"My dear sir!" One of them with a deep blue cravat tied tightly around his neck exclaimed, "How ridiculous you look. Quite undignified, I say!"

"Undignified, indeed," sniffed another one with an upturned nose.

The Gryffindor ghost frowned and rebuked, "Give the boy some slack, Lord Draben. It hasn't even been a day since we pulled him out!"

Remembering that Myrtle said something similar earlier, Draco asked, "What does that mean, exactly?"

The party looked at each other uncomfortably— perhaps this conversation was too 'undignified' for such _gentlemen_ to partake in, Draco scoffed. Finally, an older ghost with a large belly hanging out of the folds of his vest and his head tucked under his right armpit responded, "It is… difficult for us to go into detail— such a ghastly, but necessary matter." He spoke from under his arm, the whiskers of his white mustache twitching at every word.

Continuing, he said, "Death is such a thorny bush to tackle; at the destruction of our living bodies the soul is released from the body, but for those who chooses to remain walking amongst the living, like ourselves, an imprint is left. Most believe it to be the copy of the soul, but there of course is debate amongst the _scholars_ of our kind—" Taking a moment of pause to snicker before resuming, "But the copy is still trapped in the body at death— it needs to be extracted in a process that leaves the person, who is now a ghost, in a sleep like state until the trauma of the ordeal is rectified. Horrid, but a necessity of course!"

"What happens if the imprint isn't removed?" Draco asked, watching as the group exchanged a worrying glance, but this time it was Nearly-Headless Nick who spoke up first.

"The process of decay on the body corrupts the soul, twisting it into something unspeakably evil; and there is a chance, although unrecorded in modern times, that it might _reanimate_ the body. However, it would be neither human nor ghost, but would be a creature as dark as its wicked and unnatural beginnings. To prevent the chance of such things, a group of us must pluck the imprint from the body, much like plucking an apple from its tree; simple as that really." When he finished he smiled at gestured to his group while saying, "And now I think introductions are in order; we of course know of you, Draco Lucius Malfoy, heir of the House of Malfoy and The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. I am Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, former court wizard of Henry VII's royal court and current house ghost of Gryffindor."

The potbellied man straightened and hoisted his severed head up into the air as he belted his introduction, "Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore of the Headless Hunt is my name, and it is wonderful to be acquainted with another member of the House of Malfoy; I met a distant relative of yours some years ago and a fine chap he was. Though, I must say, a stuff fellow if I ever seen one— but that is a story for another time m'boy."

"Lord Draben, Viscount of Colchester." The one with the cravat said with a tip of his velveteen top hat.

A gruff voice bellowed out, "Harold Godwinson, King of the Saxons." An arrow was deeply fixed into the ghost's helmet, the tip hanging out the back.

The pattern of introductions continued with each ghost of the debonair group, each with a title tied to the end of their name or a humorous anecdote of past monarchs or nobles. Finally, they made it to the last member of the group: an old ghost with deep set bags under both eyes and blue-tinted lips. Unlike the rest of the company, he wore ragged robes and a frayed rope around his neck. Mumbling out a name that Draco couldn't quite catch, one of the gentlemen who introduced himself as Fitzwilliam Wilde, patted him on the shoulders.

"Doesn't speak much, our Old John." The dapper ghost said, "But, you two should become acquainted since you two share the same cause of death."

"What?" asked Draco with a puzzled expression evident on his face. He squinted his eyes to examine the elder ghost, and the noose around his neck was what stood out the most, indicating a hanging. Blue lips signaled aspiration; although his neck was kinked where the robe met skin meaning he could have broken his neck when hung. The most probable answer was execution; but, surely, they could not have the same death then. Unless it was…

_"Suicide." _

* * *

**Author's Note:** **Finally, I managed to take this story off hiatus and write another chapter. It took me a while to decide the direction of this story and now that I have some of the nuances figured out I will hopefully be able to update regularly. A couple of notices: there will be a few additions to the stories description and a few words added to the first chapter. It will appear to be minor tweaks, but I think it will impact the story heavily later. I would like to remind you again that the trigger warnings posted on the first chapter will be relevant throughout the story, but if I feel like a chapter is particularly damaging I will repost them.**

**I realize the concept that ghosts can't walk on their feet is a bit strange, but I wanted to have a sign that Draco is so unable to accept his death that he would cause himself discomfort to recapture his humanity. But my logic was that it would be difficult to walk if you are unable to fully feel the ground beneath you. Other confusions or plot holes will be sealed up in future chapters xD **

**Thanks for reading! And a big thanks to all who are have alerted and faved the story so far! **

**EDIT: Because I added over 2,000 additional words, I decided to re-submit this chapter. While I might have over-stepped my creative license boundaries, I wanted to add more information about ghosts and the process it involves. I realize that some might disagree, it won't be essential to the plot, but just to add complexity to the story. **


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